“Oh come on, we can take ’em.”
“It’s a long way.”
“I cannot jump the distance, you’ll have to toss me…don’t tell the elf.”
We all know that I have a terrible inferiority complex when it comes to meeting celebrities (even local ones). “Will they like me?” I think. “Can I trust myself to say something witty and endearing?” I think, sweating profusely. “What if I’m not dressed nicely enough to impress them?” I think, from a dead faint on the floor.
It’s silly, and it doesn’t make much sense. We’re all people, after all. We’re all plodding through this wonderful, cruel maze that is The Human Condition. Celebrities just happen to have a marketable talent. Or are lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Or are really, really ridiculously good-looking. Or are hard workers. Or some combination of all four.
The fact is, I can’t seem to remember any of this wisdom when faced with a real, live celebrity. And thus I’m always surprised when they turn out to be nice, regular people. (Of course, some celebrities are as appraising and arrogant as I fear, and those I choose to smirk about later: “It goes to their heads. It always, always goes to their heads. Heh heh heh. I was right all along.” But then again, plenty of people who don’t have their own TV shows are appraising and arrogant.)
So when Wednesday night found me sitting in the sixth row at a Garrison Keillor poetry reading, I knew I was in for it. Here was a man whose voice I had literally been hearing through the radio for my entire life. My parents own a boat on Lake Superior, and some of my earliest memories are of hurtling through the northern woods on Sunday afternoons, listening to Guy Noir or News From Lake Wobegon and laughing whenever my parents laughed. Sometimes, uncomfortably full with the Happy Meals we had begged for for miles and miles (and which were somehow disappointing once actually opened and consumed), my sister and I would fall asleep in the backseat of the minivan to the sound of Mr. Keillor’s voice, and wake up at home.
Garrison Keillor is perhaps the most important public figure of all, in the Minnesotan mind. He brought us–our church basement suppers, our bars and hot dishes, our passive aggression, our experience of being up at the lake or down on the farm or “in town,” our grandparents and parents and cousins–to the world. And sure, we’re not always so neurotic as A Prairie Home Companion portrays us to be. Nor always so poignant nor so musical. But the spirit of the show is right.
All of the sudden the poetry reading was over. The wide sheets of paper Mr. Keillor had read from were scattered on the floor. And Mr. Keillor himself was strolling down the stage steps, down the aisle, and out into the lobby, where, as he said, he would be happy to sign copies of O, What a Luxury and to chat. Mom and I joined the growing line, squashed in between an older woman who exclaimed that she was “just wild for E.E. Cummings” and a young couple tossing computer jargon–discs and codes and bytes–back and forth like a softball.
Then we were at the front, and I silently handed my book to Mr. Keillor, deciding in a split second that perhaps I should just be quietly friendly and not attempt any conversation. He looked up, though, and jokingly commented on my mom’s hair, and then turned to me with an “what do you have to say for yourself, young lady?” expression.
So I told him that I’m a recent graduate from the University of Minnesota.
“And what did they do for you there?”
“They gave me an English degree, but I’m still figuring out how to use it. I’m trying to get a job writing or editing.”
“Are you a good writer and editor?”
“Yes.” (Then, because that seemed too vain) “I mean, I like to think I am.”
“Send your resume to Prairie Home Companion, then.”
I’m going to end the conversation here, but note that there was some additional stuttering on my part before the exchange was over. Perhaps also some gushing to my patient mother during the drive home: “I can’t believe Garrison Keillor told me to send in my resume! I mean, it wasn’t exactly a promise of a job, but still. I’m going to have to write a cover letter right away. I think I’ll say something about listening to APHC as a kid, but I don’t want to ramble, you know, so I’ll have to be concise…” You get the idea.
To conclude this saga, I think there’s a lesson to be learned: if we ever happen to develop a marketable talent; or are in the right place at the right time; or become really, really ridiculously good-looking; or increase our work ethic…in other words, if we become celebrities, let’s remember to be kind to stuttering recent graduates who ask for our autographs. Because it will mean a lot to them.
For those of you who are new round these parts, and for those of you who are still hanging around: please note that the “About the Blog (And Me)” page has been updated.
As in, I’m no longer pretending to still be in college. I have officially stated my graduation.
As in, I have set up lots of links to some of my more…notorious…posts.
As in, there’s still no photo of me because my goodness I struggle to take a nice selfie. We can’t all have that gift.
In other news, I am currently working on taking ownership of this blog. Which means, essentially, that I’ll pay to host it separately from WordPress. I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, this being to make Eight Days a Week into an independent blog. One of the major perks of this change will be that I can look into applying to be part of BlogHer, which is where all the female blogging powerhouses make their home.
Don’t misunderstand me, I have little idea of what I’m getting myself into. I’m doing plenty of research, though, so that when the switch is made, you (the reader) will hopefully not be inconvenienced.
Having suffered through a few early morning wake ups in a row, all I wanted to do after work today was lounge on the couch and wait for SNL. So be it. I’ve brought pillows and blankets from my bed. I have technology–laptop, phone, remote control–within arm’s reach. I have Old Dutch pretzels. I have a water bottle for the inevitable moment when I start to shrivel from the saltiness of the pretzels. Ruby is at my feet chewing the squeaker out of her stuffed skunk (that’s an odd sentence).
On TV is, of all things, A Salute to Vienna. It is “a music and dance gala concert showcasing the musical heritage of Vienna.” And I’m enjoying it immensely, even though I’ve already forgotten enough German that I can only listen dumbly.
Every so often, as they tend to do, the PBS folks break in and ask me to donate sixty dollars so that programs like this might remain on television. Their cause is a noble one, but I have to say that they should consider changing tactics. Instead of politely, humbly asking for our money, perhaps they should try threats. Like, “if you don’t call in RIGHT NOW the principal soprano will appear in your living room and blast a high C until you produce your wallet.” Or, “Remember your little three-week Keeping up with the Kardashians marathon last summer? Gee, I would hate to let slip about that to your friends and relatives…”
Beyond inspiring brilliant fundraising strategies, A Salute to Vienna is making me remember when I was in Vienna myself a few years ago. Particularly, when friends and I stood in line for hours in order to get 4 Euro parterre seats for the Magic Flute at the Vienna State Opera. Despite parterre translating to “standing room in which you may fight over velvet-topped railings to lean on. Tough luck, Holly. You should have worn more comfortable shoes.”, it was a beautiful night in a beautiful city.
Heck, maybe I’ll cough up that sixty dollars.
I think I cheated a little this week. The posts consist of Friday Favorites, a video about breastfeeding, and Friday Favorites again. I don’t mean for Friday Favorites to make up the entirety of the blog, but if I can’t think of any one topic that merits its own post, it’s certainly nice to have a place to circle the blurb wagons at the end of the week …
I was just this close to writing an extended Oregon Trail metaphor. Consider yourselves happily spared.
Here are a few things that made my life better this week:
It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.
Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.
It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious denouement
to the unsurprising end- riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.
“Riveted” by Robyn Sarah, from A Day’s Grace. © The Porcupine’s Quill.
Writer’s Almanac. I’m telling you, kids.
A few weeks ago a friend and I had dinner in Uptown Minneapolis. We chose–fairly randomly, I assure you–a little Thai restaurant on the edge of the nightlife where we could sit outside and not be tripped over by cool cats stumbling in high heels. As we ate our Pad Thai with tofu, fire alarms began to go off inside a building across the way. Then a fire truck arrived. Then a few police cars arrived. Then a larger fire truck arrived. The fuss was over rather quickly; perhaps it was a false alarm or merely burned popcorn. Since no one was hurt, we considered it dinner theatre.
The Pad Thai, though. We agreed, once we had pushed our plates away and leaned back, full, that it was delicious, but that the flavors were so heavy and distinct that we wouldn’t crave them again for at least a year.
A week later I woke up craving Pad Thai. I mentioned making the dish to my parents. Mom was game, but Dad poorly hid his apprehension. So I didn’t make it. Another week went by, and I am now dreaming–day and night–about Pad Thai. Especially the tofu soaked in sauce and a little crunchy on the outside.
I’ll stop now, because I don’t want to drown Mac in my saliva, but I will likely be making Pad Thai at home (even if just for myself to enjoy) very, very soon. I will likely use this recipe.
This homecoming game:
My beloved alma mater is celebrating homecoming this weekend, and I’m not going. I don’t have a great reason, really, except that I am still jobless and living at home, and I think it would hurt my pride to return to Morris before I’m triumphant and successful. It’s not that I would be judged there. It’s just a standard I’m holding for myself.
But I’m cheering for the Cougars from afar, hoping we can overcome last year’s disappointment.
I have a deep, abiding love for The Outsiders. It began in eighth grade, when we first read the book in Language Arts and our conversations–even outside of class–were peppered with words like “heater,” “rumble,” and “Greasers.” We even had a day when we were allowed to forgo our uniforms (Catholic school, remember?) and dress as either a Soc or a Greaser. Which one you chose said a lot about you. “Typical, typical,” we twittered when so-and-so showed up in a sweater set and angel-white tennis shoes.
Then we discovered the movie. I can’t remember if we watched it in class or if a select few of us watched it at a sleepover. But that was it. It’s impossible to watch Ponyboy recite Robert Frost against a golden sunset, or Dally yell with surprising emotion, “We’ll do it for Johnny, man! We’ll do it for Johnny!” without being hooked. Plus, the cast! The beautiful ensemble cast! Matt Dillon, Tom Cruise, Diane Lane, Emilio Estevez, Rob Lowe, Patrick Swayze, Ralph Macchio, C. Thomas Howell, etc. Before they were movie stars, they were outsiders.
I never expect Margaret Atwood’s books to be as good as they are. Why is that? Perhaps it’s because I have this strange desire to shout to the heavens that I DO NOT LIKE SCIENCE FICTION. When really, I do. At least a little. When its sparkling innovation is backed up by human-like frankness and clumsiness and poignancy, as Margaret’s is.
This is the second novel of hers I’ve read (the first was The Handmaid’s Tale), and the second novel of hers that has utterly swept me away.
Maybe someday I’ll learn.
About a year ago on this blog, I wrote,
” … In which I decide that breastfeeding in public is gross. I was taking the minutes at a division meeting, grumbling to myself over the sad fact that professors simply think themselves to be above Robert’s Rules, when suddenly the professor at the next table, who had been holding her five-month-old on her lap for the past half hour, stooped to grab a large scarf from her bag. Before I could avert my still-scarred-from-too-much-TLC-in-high-school eyes, she draped the scarf around her shoulders and over the baby, and began the feeding as if there weren’t fifty other people in the room. Gross. I realize that it’s not fair that you should have to be a pariah just because you have an infant, but still. Gross.”
I’m ashamed now that I held such an opinion. And I’m even more ashamed when I think that because of misunderstanding people like me, perhaps that breastfeeding mother was made to feel embarrassed, as if she were doing something wrong. She wasn’t.
This explains it best:
Poet (and mother) Hollie McNish performing her spoken word poem “Embarrassed.”